


The Merry Chase Affair

by engmaresh



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Chases, Down the Chimney Affair, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 13:00:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5418041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/engmaresh/pseuds/engmaresh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas in Vienna! What better time and place to dodge TRUSH goons, flirt with pretty girls, and eat one's way through a Weihnachtsmarkt?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Merry Chase Affair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elmey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elmey/gifts).



> Gabi Teller has a bit of a cameo here, but this is still very much a MUNCLE TV fic.

Arnold Buchholz was a thuggish looking man with a thuggish demeanor. To Napoleon, this made the man’s success as an art fence somewhat of a puzzle. A man who was willing to aggravate and fleece a potential client within minutes of meeting him was not a man who had many.

Yet Buchholz had managed to build enough of a reputation for himself, enough to land him in UNCLE’s radar. It probably had to do with his talent for getting his hands on certain hard-to-get items. It was likely what he used his intimidating height and build for - the extortion of rare items or information about their whereabouts.

How unfortunate for Herr Buchholz, that Napoleon was no fan of posturing, well used to being loomed over and threatened by taller men, and slowly getting tired of the attempt to intimidate him into accepting a higher price.

“I believe our deal was three thousand for the painting, not five.”

Buchholz, finally recognizing that Napoleon wasn’t about to roll over and give in, settled back in his chair. Napoleon, while appreciating the chance to relieve the crick in his neck, recognized the fence’s sudden change in posture as a possible change in of the tone of negotiations. He shifted in his seat, using the movement to conceal the unbuttoning of his jacket, in case he had to go for his concealed UNCLE special.

A glance at the fence’s face, however, told him that his action had not gone unnoticed. As Buchholz leaned forward, resting his chin on his fist, his other hand crept rather unsubtly under the table.

“I have heard that someone else looking for this painting.”

“I suppose a little birdie told you?" 

Buchholz smirked. “Their offer was rather more generous than your… uncle’s. Especially when I told them I could give them the great Napoleon Solo too.”

“What did they offer you, Buchholz?” Napoleon asked, drawing his gun as he got to his feet now that all pretenses were dropped. “Nine dancing girls? Five golden rings?”

“Put the gun down, Solo. I’ve got my own gun pointed right at your balls, and I get a better price if I deliver you to TRUSH in one piece.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the UNCLE agent uncocked his gun and placed it on the table between them.

“Very good, Solo,” said Buchholz smugly, and tossed a pair of handcuffs onto the table. “If you would kindly put these on.”

“I’d reconsider if I were you,” said Napoleon, picking up the cuffs. “After all, a hospital stay or a funeral would take quite a chunk out of your paycheck.”

“Maybe you should—” Buchholz began, but the rest of his suggestion was lost in the sound of shattering glass as the window behind him exploded inwards. Napoleon had the fortune of having a desk to duck behind. Buchholz was not so lucky. In his haste to get away from the broken glass, he tripped over his own feet and crashed heavily to the floor.

Through the broken window came first a pair of feet, followed by some familiar black-clad legs, a lithe body dressed all in black, and finally the tow-headed, scowling face of Napoleon’s partner.

“Ho ho ho,” said Illya flatly as he brushed glass off his coat. “Who’s getting coal this year?”

“You’re just in time, Illya,” said Napoleon, snatching up his gun. “We’re about to have company.

“Yes, I saw them. That’s why I decided to drop by. Do you have the painting?”

Buchholz, apparently recovered from his daze, lunged to his feet. “Is this how it’s going to go?” he snarled. “You double crossing me?”

“I'm only double-crossing a double-crosser,” Napoleon sniped back. “Now please sit down—”

The fence ducked behind his desk to grab his gun, only to come up empty handed.

“What the—”

“Sorry,” said Illya completely unapologetically, and shot him twice with his dart gun. He had Buchholz’s gun tucked into the waistband of his pants.

“Well, that takes care of him,” said Napoleon, stepping over Buchholz’s prone form. “Let’s get the panting and go.”

“Isn’t the safe back there?” asked Illya, pointing towards a large painting on the wall.

“Too obvious. Buchholz knew the value of this painting; he probably has it hidden somewhere trickier.”

He studied one of the paintings that had been placed against the wall, a stretched canvas of an abstract nude. It wasn’t a very large painting, about five feet by two and the canvas was unusually thick.

“Do hurry up, Napoleon,” urged Illya, peering over the broken window frame. “We are about to have guests.”

“Pass me your knife.”

Illya tossed his pocketknife at him, and Napoleon quickly began to pry loose the staples that held the canvas to the frame.

“Napoleon…

“Gotcha.” The last staple came loose and two pieces of canvas came off the frame, the concealed one an exact copy of the one that had been stretched over it.

“Make sure it’s the right one,” called Illya from the window, right before a bullet zipped over his head and buried itself in the wood paneled wall. He cursed in Russian and fired back, still using his dart gun. Napoleon reached inside his jacket for the scanner that had been provided to him by UNCLE Vienna's labs. He ran it across the second piece of canvas. Nothing. Another bullet flew through the window.

“Napoleon!”

He ran the scanner over the painting again. Once again, there was nothing. He checked the other painting. He shook the scanner then smacked it with his palm. It should work, it had worked just hours ago when it had been passed to him at headquarters. They had the wrong painting. And there wasn’t time to search the rest of the place. If they wanted to prevent the map from falling into TRUSH’s hands, they’d have to torch Buchholz's dingy little office and everything in it.

One last time, he ran the scanner over the previously concealed painting, then on a hunch, flipped it over. Once again, nothing turned up there, but when he tried it on the back of the display canvas, a meticulously drawn coastline started to appear under the scanner’s blue light. He stuffed the scanner back into his pocket and rolled up the painting.

“Found it.”

“That was fast,” Illya remarked sarcastically, and the split second he turned away from the window, a bullet thudded into its frame, right above his head. Illya cursed as he was showered with splinters, one drawing a thin trail of blood above his left eyebrow.

“Illya!”

“It’s nothing. Go!” Staying crouched, they hurried to the shop’s back door, leaving the still sedated body of Arnold Buchholz in the office. TRUSH would take care of him.

The backdoor lead them out into a courtyard, thankfully free from unwelcome Trushes. Illya took point, Napoleon close behind him with his gun out and the rolled canvas tucked under his jacket. He scanned the rooftops for snipers, but it looked like they were in the clear for now.

Exciting the courtyard, they turned into an empty street. Not a single light shone in the windows, not one other person was out despite the hour. At eight, it was still too early for a street to be so deserted, and Napoleon had negotiated exactly for this time to avoid any kind of confrontation or showdown. No such luck, it seemed. He hoped the residents and shopowners in the street had simply been threatened into staying indoors, though the sound of gunshots would have been enough to do that.

“The car?” Napoleon hissed as they slunk down the street, keeping close to the walls.

“We can write that one off,” Illya muttered. “I think I saw one of them booby trap it.”

“Well why didn’t you shoot him?”  
  
“It was a choice between you and the car, and personally, I find the car rather more expendable. Maybe you shouldn’t have let that fool Buchholz draw a gun on you in the first place!”

The outburst seemed to surprise Illya as much as it surprised Napoleon because he scowled and turned back to scan the street.  
  
“If we go down here--"

"No," Illya interrupted. "We should split up. You take the main street. They’re covering all the side streets, so don’t turn down any of them. I’ll distract them, and catch up with you.”

Napoleon frowned. He wasn't quite sure how Illya was going to "catch up" when own his goal was to disappear. “What are you planning?”

“Well," said Illya, the corner of his mouth turning up, "TRUSH was kind enough to booby trap your car for you.”

It wasn't the best of plans, but at the present moment, Napoleon couldn't come up with a better alternative. Splitting up had worked for them in the past, though to varying effects, and they usually ended up parted for much longer than planned.

"All right," he said and clapped Illya on the shoulder. "Take care partner."

He waited till Illya had disappeared around the corner before he took off in his own direction. It was difficult to not turn back and join the Russian when the sound of yells and gunshots drifted over.

He'd just slipped into a connecting street and come face to face with two TRUSH goons when an explosion rocked the street, briefly lighting up the night and sending all three agents instinctively ducking for cover.

Napoleon recovered first, and used the distraction to sock one Trush in the face. The man stumbled away, swearing in German, and his partner pulled out a gun. His aim was wildly off though, and sent chips of stone showering down on all of them. Napoleon shot him before he could squeeze out another round, and put a second dart in the agent he'd knocked down.

Thank god for Illya and his explosions, he thought as stepped past the downed agents and carried on. The explosion would certainly draw the police. Not to mention that the sound had several panicked residents and shopkeepers cautiously venturing out to find out what exactly was going on.

Tucking the painting more securely under his arm, he continued on his way, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible as more and more people started coming out of the surrounding buildings. Another turn brought him past a courtyard, and he slipped through the gate.

Almost immediately Napoleon was set upon by a typical THRUSH heavy: over six feet, built like a brick shithouse and very, very unfriendly. The goon lunged at him, catching him surprise --usually they punched first-- and knocked him back against a wall, bouncing his head off the all too solid brick. 

Stars danced in front of his eyes, and he tasted salt. He pushed back against the goon, bringing up a knee between them to push away. The goon staggered back but quickly recovered and swung a huge meaty fist at Napoleon’s head. He ducked, and it swept over his head, though the sudden movement kicked up a bout of vertigo. 

He scrambled back, doing his best to avoid further blows. The attack had made him drop his gun, and it lay somewhere in the darkness of the courtyard.

As he ducked again he kicked out and managed to land a blow to the goon’s knee. It buckled, and as the goon stumbled forward, he lashed out with a karate chop to the neck. 

But this one was faster most THRUSH gorillas, and swept Napoleon’s strike away before it could connect, sending him off balance. He staggered sideways, arms raised to block the goon’s next blow.

Then like some kind of vengeful angel, or one of Zeus’ lightning bolts, a shadowy form dropped down onto the goon’s back. The impact was enough to send the huge man to his knees, and a blow to the neck completely felled him. 

“Right on time,” Napoleon remarked as Illya casually rolled off the goon's back and pulled him to his feet. 

“As usual.” Instead of letting go and searching for their next escape route, Illya tugged Napoleon closer and ran his hands through his hair, testing his skull. Napoleon submitted quietly to the quick examination. 

“No blood,” concluded Illya, and pulled a penlight out of his pocket. He flashed it quickly in each of his partner’s eyes. “You may have a bit of a concussion.” 

“A minor one, maybe, but I’m fine,” Napoleon assured him as he picked up his gun. A sudden realization struck him and he frantically patted himself down. “The painting!” 

Illya held up the rolled canvas and started to shrug off his coat and jacket. “I have it.” He proceeded to flatten it and tucked it into the waistband of his pants, back where he’d earlier kept Buchholz’s gun. Napoleon winced at the abuse being done to the piece of art, then reasoned that it was not the art UNCLE needed, but the map hidden on its back. 

He helped Illya tuck the top end of the painting under one of the straps of his shoulder holster to keep it in place, then helped his partner pull his jacket on over it.

“We need to keep moving." 

"Yes," Illya agreed, pulling his coat back on. "Remember when we passed a Weihnachtsmarkt on the way here? If we could find it again, we could hide there and call for retrieval." 

Napoleon hmmm-ed, considering their options. As it went, there weren't many. THRUSH really wanted that map. 

"That seems to be our best choice. Do you think you could find it again?”

“I was up on the roof. It’s about…” Illya spun a circle, then pointed northwest. “That way.”

Napoleon swept out a hand. “You lead.”

They hurried through the courtyard and exited from a side gate that led out into a different street. This one had apparently not yet been covered by THRUSH. A couple of young men were loitering about, on a doorstep, smoking and talking. A bit too young and carefree-looking to be THRUSH stooges, though the two agents kept a careful eye on the group as they walked down the street.

“That was clever, with the bomb, though I can’t see Waverly being to pleased about it.”

“Not my idea. I was planning to wire the car to drive into them, but seems like whoever thought to booby trap it wanted to blow us up.” Illya shrugged. “Not very clever, if you ask me, since they would have blown up the map too.”

“Well, let’s not question their thought processes if they work to our advantage.”

The sound of running footsteps rang out behind them. THRUSH was back on their trail. They broke into a run.

“Come on,” said Illya. “The Weihnachtsmarkt should be in the next square.”

It wasn’t. There were a few people milling about, and a small stand selling gebrannte Mandeln filled the air with a delicious smell.

“It was here! I swear it was here!”

“They couldn’t have packed up and moved in the past ten minutes, Illya. You must have taken the wrong turn." 

That suggestion was met with a glare others usually reserved for the insult of their mother. “I don’t get lost. You do.”

“Well, we’re lost now,” Napoleon snapped. “Maybe you’d like to ask someone for directions.”

“I will,” Illya snapped back, and stalked over to the snack stall. The little old lady manning it looked happy enough to give directions, especially when Illya bought a large bag of candied almonds. 

Napoleon, sidling up behind, managed to catch the tail end of the conversation before Illya paid.

After turning down an offer that sounded like something-something, dinner and an unmarried granddaughter, Illya thanked her and headed back to his partner, already popping a candied treat into his mouth. 

“This is the first time I’ve heard an Austrian accent that strong,” Napoleon observed, as he took an almond from Illya’s bag. 

“Yes, it was a little hard to understand her,” said Illya, but he strode confidently ahead, popping the candied nuts into his mouth.

“Are you sure she said _rechts_?”

“ _Rechts_ and _links_ are two very different sounding words, Napoleon." 

“Well yes,” said the American with a little shrug, “but she wasn’t very clear on when we had to turn right or left.”

“You’re right, said Illya suddenly. “We turn _here_.” He steered them into a different street. The wrong street, Napoleon was sure, unless his German comprehension had seriously worsened from the lack of use.

Then he saw the reason for the sudden change in direction. A group of tourists, American, from the sound of their accents, poured out of the lobby of a small hotel and into the street, laughing and chattering as they wrapped scarves around their necks and pulled on woolen hats.

It was easy enough for the two agents to mix with the crowd of mostly young women and a family of five. All, by a stroke of good fortune, headed to the Weihnachtsmarkt. 

The group ambled down the street and around several corners, first a _rechts_ to the main street and then a _links_ into the main square. It took a moment for Napoleon to extricate himself from a young woman regaling him with stories of her travels, but as the group gathered around a Lebkuchen stand, he and Illya slipped away.

They first took refuge behind a stand selling Glühwein. The crowd of people milling around it sipping hot mulled wine made for good cover, and Napoleon joined the line for drinks as Illya prowled around, keeping an eye out for any errant birds. The American knelt down to lace up his boot, and surreptitiously pulled out his communicator pen. 

“Open Channel F. Solo here.”

“Solo! _Na endlich_! We received reports of gunfire and an explosion at your last known location. Have you managed to retrieve the map?”

“Yes, sir,” said Napoleon briskly, “Unfortunately we’ve picked up quite a few THRUSH agents. We are currently in the Weihnachtsmarkt Am Hof, where we’re hoping to shake them.”

“No,” said Leitner. “If THRUSH wants the map so bad, we shouldn’t risk it. I’m sending someone to pick you up.”

“Sir—”

“Someone will contact you with more information,” said Leitner and the line went dead.

Napoleon put away the communicator and straightened, only to find himself face to face with some unhappy Austrians and a rather large gap in the line before him. With a “‘ _Tschuldigung_ ” and his most charming smile, he sidled out of the line.

And almost walked right into Illya, licking powdered sugar off his fingers. “Six thrushes so far,” the Russian reported, “all on the other side of the square. Either they’re trying to corner us or we did manage to lose them for a while.”

“But they’ve realized that we’re here.”

Illya shrugged. “It is the most obvious placed to try and blend in. Also I think they’ve found an antidote to the sedative we use. I recognized one of the men I darted back at Buchholz’s place. Very large ears.”

“Hmmm. I checked in with Vienna. They don’t want to risk the map. They’re sending a pick up.”

“Pick up?”

“I’m still waiting for more information.” As if on cue, Napoleon’s communicator started beeping, and he quickly turn it on.  
  
“Solo, receiving.”  
  
“Herr Solo,” said the female voice on the other end. “We’ve dispatched Agent Teller to your location. Look out for a black Skoda. There’ll be a dent in the fender and the plates are V 86253 A.”

“Noted, Miss…?”

He could her the smile in her voice. “Enzensberger, Herr Solo. _Passt auf_.”

“We will.” He ended the conversation, and looked over to his partner, who had ambled over to a food stand.

“Didn't you just have a Berliner?"

“They’re called Krapfen here,” said Illya, absently as he dug into his pocket for change. “And being chased by THRUSH makes me hungry. Are they sending someone?”

“They are sending a Mr Teller to pick us up.” He conveyed the description of the car and plate number to Illya, who nodded thoughtfully 

“So we have some time to pass. Give me a moment, I found this little stall that might interest you.”

“If it’s food—”

“No. But wait here.”

Illya walked up to the stand he’d been eyeing and soon came back with a paper plate of… something. Napoleon peered at his partner’s plate. It looked like some kind of dumpling, covered in vanilla sauce and sprinkled with poppy seeds.

“ _Germknödel_. Want some?” Illya asked, sawing off a piece with his fork. A dark, preserve-like filling oozed out of the dumpling.

“No, thank you. So what were you going to show me?”

“This way.” Illya led the way past a Nativity scene, slowly decimating his dumpling on the way until they stopped in front of a little stand selling paintings of Vienna.

“So?”

Illya tossed his plate in a nearby bin. A smudge of preserves stained the corner of his mouth. “Wouldn’t you like a painting, Napoleon? You could give one to Direktor Leitner. I’m sure he’d appreciate the gift.”

After some momentary puzzlement, Napoleon caught on. “Ah, yes, you’re right. I think it’ll look very nice in his office. And you could get one for Mr Waverly.”

“Excellent idea, Napoleon.”

He was about to march straight off to the stand but Napoleon grabbed his arm. “You’ve got something there…” he tapped the corner of his own mouth.

Illya frowned, and made to wipe it off with his sleeve only for Napoleon to wave his handkerchief in his face. “Have some class, my friend.”

“Ah, but don’t you know I am classless?” Illya drawled as he accepted the hanky. “I didn’t know I had to clean up for shopping.”

“I’d hate to shop with you if that was the case. That old lady may have had a soft spot for hooligans, but I don’t think she does.” He nodded at the young woman manning the stand. 

“You’ve also got a bit of blood above your eyebrow.” He pointed at the cut Illya had received at Buchholz’s office.

His partner rolled his eyes but licked his thumb and ran it over the cut, following with the hanky until all red was gone.

“Happy? Would you like me to invite her to a dance while I’m at it, or is that honor reserved for you?”

“Don’t be crass Illya. No one’s going to notice a bum eating their way through the Markt, but she’s going to draw attention if she thinks you’re about to rob her.”

“We’ll draw attention if we don’t approach her soon. Which one do you want?”

“Any,” snapped Napoleon. “Something similar. And hurry, we are being watched.”

“Don’t think they sell nudes in a Weihnachtsmarkt,” Illya muttered before pasting on his most charming smile. This next part in their campaign of misdirection against THRUSH involved sleight-of-hand, something Illya was somewhat marginally better at than Napoleon. And when the Russian did bother to turn on his charm, the force of it could be blinding.

Napoleon kept an eye on his partner, even as he lurked nearby, watching out for any THRUSH operatives in the vicinity. A suspicious looking type chewed moodily on some Saltzstangen, and there was another one pretending to look over some wares when in fact he was using an ornate mirror on display to surreptitiously observe the area.

It looked like THRUSH was trying to go for subtle, seeing that direct offense had so far failed them. So far, they hadn’t been spotted, but it was only a matter of time.

“Illya…”

“Yes, yes, I’m paying all ready.”

The shopkeeper said something, and Illya responded in a teasing tone. She laughed, and bid him a cheerful farewell as he left.

“Your gift for Herr Leitner.” Illya reached behind him under his coat and pulled out a flattened roll of canvas, tucking the one he’d just bought in its place. Napoleon quickly tucked the original under his coat.

“We’d better get out of here,” he muttered, casting a glance around the crowded square.

"Is your pickup coming soon?"

Maybe the stars were right today, or his Solo luck particularly strong, because right that moment a black Skoda careened around the corner with a screech of tires.

“That’s the one.”

“Looks like THRUSH has seen it too,” Illya noted, looking around at the operatives who had finally spotted them, abandoned their posts and were headed straight for the two UNCLE agents. “Go! I’ll keep them busy.”

“Why don’t you just—” Napoleon began, but Illya had already run ahead and thrown himself straight them.

Napoleon muttered something rather uncomplimentary under his breath as he dashed towards the car. As he neared the edges of the market, someone lurched at him from behind a display of ornaments, but he ducked, threw himself forwards into roll and almost fetched up against the idling car.

The door was flung open, revealing a young woman with long brown hair. “Come in!’ she said urgently.  
  
He threw himself into the passenger seat and the car sped off.

“Where’s your partner?” asked Miss Teller as she turned into a narrow side street.

“Providing a distraction. He’ll make his own way back.”

She glanced at him dubiously. “If you say so.” She brought the car in a sharp turn out onto the main street. There were few cars out at this time of the night, and Teller floored the accelerator.

“I’m Gaby Teller, by the way. And no need to introduce yourself,” she added, and grinned at him. She had a lovely smile. “Napoleon Solo. Why haven’t you seduced me yet?”

“Uh,” Napoleon stammered, caught somewhat off guard. “I’m sorry, Miss Teller, it hasn’t been my best day.”

“Just Gaby, please," said Gaby, "and I’m just teasing you.” She patted him on the knee. “From what I’ve been hearing, you’ve be running from THRUSH for the better part of the night. We’ve got four other agents from Section 2 running interference in the area but THRUSH got Schuster and Ober with a knockout grenade.”

“Don’t worry, they’re all right,” she assured him. “THRUSH’s main focus has been you.”

“What a relief,” Napoleon remarked dryly. Sending a car had been a good idea. It was nice to sit again after all the running and walking.

“It’s curious,” said Teller, peering at the rear mirror. “I was expecting someone to follow us.”

The street was surprisingly free of suspicious characters and vehicles.

“They must all be after Illya,” Napoleon said worriedly.

“Berndt and Stern have been assigned to assist him while I got you,” Gaby explained. “He’ll be fine.”

Illya could take care of himself, and with two other UNCLE agents he could probably take on all of THRUSH Vienna, but Napoleon kept a hand on his communicator all the way back to UNCLE Vienna. Just in case.

* * *

Direktor Leitner was in his office, deep in conversation with another man. Both looked up as Gaby and Napoleon entered.

“Ah. Herr Solo, Fräulein Teller. Good to see you in one piece. Herr Ebener arrived just a few minutes ahead of you. He has the package. Herr Solo, can you verify if it’s the right one?”

Napoleon started as Ebener stepped forward and unfurled a rolled canvas just like the one he had just brought in. Then the pieces came together. Illya. Clever Russian.

Napoleon approached and pulled out the scanner, beckoning Ebener to turn it over.

Four heads came together over the painting as the American ran the blue light over it's back, illuminating the a segment of map and last piece of a puzzle that would lead UNCLE to a rogue THRUSH scientist's abandoned lab.

“Yes, it’s the one," Napoleon confirmed. Leitner nodded.

“Herr Ebener, please bring the painting down to the laboratory to be analyzed immediately. Have Frau Hartz join you, we’ll need her to read some parts of the map.”

“Right away, sir,” said Ebener with a nod and excused himself from the room.

"Where is Herr Kuryakin?" Leitner asked, looking around the room as the courier left.

"Leading THRUSH on a merry chase." And myself too, Napoleon thought irritably. He wondered when Illya had called for courier, and when the swap had happened. Well, it explained now why he was so insistent on hiding in the Weihnachtsmarkt.

“Well, we can’t leave him out in the cold," said Leitner. He pressed a button on his intercom. "Fräulein Enzensberger?”

"Yes, Herr Direktor?"

“Fräulein Enzensberger, please inform Herr Kuryakin that package has been delivered and that he can return to headquarters. Berndt and Stern should be with him. Recall them too. And make sure the police have assistance with the distraction we orchestrated.”

“Yes, Herr Direktor.”

“A distraction?” asked Napoleon.

“Mmmm, yes,” said Leitner. “It just so happened that a Christmas tree overbalanced and fell over. Three people were trapped under it… they are now in custody, which they should be grateful for, since we’re paying for their medical bills.”

Napoleon nodded, familiar with the way THRUSH abandoned their lesser underlings when they proved to be a liability.

Leitner briskly rubbed his hands together again. “Thank you, Herr Solo, for your assistance. You can let Alexander know that we have all parts of the map. Any information gleaned from them will be shared with UNCLE Northwest immediately.”

Then he turned a pointed look to Gaby. “Fräulein Teller, do tell me the car has been brought back in one piece.”

* * *

 

It was apparently UNCLE Vienna policy for every agent to get a quick check up in medical whether they were injured or not. Gaby patiently submitted to hers, and flounced off with a cheerful wave the moment she was cleared.

Of course, once Dr Rickens found out about Napoleon’s possible concussion, she’d been unwilling to let him go until he’d completed a barrage of tests. No amount of charm and cajoling helped talk his way out of it, though she did end up releasing him quickly, with instructions to rest and not come back again.

Illya was sitting in the waiting room, flipping through a dog-eared fashion magazine. Two paper bags sat on the chair next to him.

“Dinner?” asked Napoleon, taking the empty seat on the other side of his partner.

“Maybe,” said Illya. “Austrians sometimes eat them as a main dish, though you’d probably prefer them as dessert.”

“Sweet rolls,” he explained further at Napoleon’s puzzled look. “I happened to pass Kafe Hawelka on my way back here. They’re famous for their Buchteln.”

“Sometimes I wonder if we should weaponize that vacuum you call a stomach.”

“Have me eat my way through THRUSH? I doubt they would taste very good.”

“If they were roasted and plucked—”

“Please Napoleon, you are turning me off my dinner.”

"Good. You should have told me you'd passed the painting on to a courier."

"Precautionary measures, Napoleon,” protested Illya, though he sounded somewhat apologetic. “If you didn't know anything, you couldn't tell THRUSH anything if they caught you."

"Because that worked out so well that last time with the mind reading machine." 

"Second time's the charm?" Illya ventured. "I'm sorry, Napoleon. How about I make it up to you?"

Napoleon glanced at his partner. Illya gave him a sly look from under his bangs, then turned his gaze nonchalantly down the deserted corridor as though there weren't a dozen filthy things running through his blond head.

"Hmmm," said Napoleon slowly. "I can think of a few things."

“But the Buchteln come first," said Illya, rustling his paper bag. "They don’t taste as good cold.”

Napoleon sighed. “All right then. Buchteln first.”


End file.
